


Will Ye Go Lassie Go?

by msmelinamercury



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: (but not really), Angst and Feels, Book: Mercury and Me - Jim Hutton, Die mad about it, Forgive Me, Growing Old Together, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jim's just really sad everyone, Loneliness, M/M, POV Second Person, Please Don't Hate Me, Sad, Song fic, Sorry Not Sorry, Tissue Warning, after Freddie's death, also yes I learned about this song from my dad wrote a porno, emo times galore for all, helps if you read it but honestly you don't need to, kind of, sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21089024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmelinamercury/pseuds/msmelinamercury
Summary: Carlow was beautiful this time of year.You wish he were here to see it.Or: Jim imagines what life in retirement with Freddie would have been like and misses him more than his heart will ever be able to express.





	Will Ye Go Lassie Go?

Carlow was beautiful this time of the year. 

He would disagree. He would complain, tell you how cold it was. But you would know he thought it was beautiful too. You’d know by the way he’d get silent and look out over the rolling greens. Everyone thought he was so loud, that true magic of him was in his voice. And sure, that was true, nothing could match the music that emanated from him.

But there were his silences, the delicate cessation of speech, where you knew his mind—that beautiful little mind you’d so desperate fallen for—was reeling. His eyes, those deep dark eyes that you could just lose yourself in for ages would widen and sparkle. And he would smile, a soft, pleased smile that warmed your heart.

You’d take him by the hand. He would take a moment to notice, but then he’d grip yours tighter than ever. He’d want even the grass blades to know you were his. And you were. You were wrapped around his little finger.

“Here?” he would ask. “This is where it’ll be?”

“Yes,” you would say. “If you like it.”

He’d nod, and you two would smile. 

You always both said that you’d end up here when you were old and grey. You’d tend to the home day in and out, build him a garden of all of his favorites, even the things that weren’t supposed to be growing in the season—you’d make them grow by pouring every ounce of yourself into seeing them bloom.

You’d want a dog, a proper one to walk with in the mornings. He’d frown and bemoan how the dog would scare the cats you were getting. You wouldn’t tell him how you could just introduce the animals when they were young enough—he wouldn’t hear that sort of thing. On TV cats and dogs don’t get along. 

And so, you’d get a cat. You’d get five. You’d get as many cats as it took to make him happy.

People would know him, obviously. You’d have to avoid the prying eyes for a while. Eventually they’d give up. You would get your peace.

You’d find work, he wouldn’t. He’d complain of boredom a month in, retirement was a dreadful bore, darling. You’d remind him that it’s hard to live in retirement when you move as fast and wild as he once did. You’d insist he’d earned a break, that the boredom was good—sometimes the most wonderful times came out of boredom. 

Just in case, you’d notice a course on painting that was being given in town weekly. You’d drive him in, leave him off, and amble around until he came out—paint on his face purposefully applied so you’d have to get close and wipe it away. He’d take to it like a duck on water, and soon your home would be filled with his work.

He’d make you hang it while he watched, probably commenting about your ass. 

You’d decided you could finish hanging paintings later, your bed was calling you both.

You’d argue. Oh, how you knew you’d argue. You’d say cruel things to each other because you knew how to hurt each other. He would be overdramatic; you would be withdrawn. You’d both ask how you could possibly ever make what you had work. By nightfall you’d remember every little reason and more, and you’d curl with him in bed, promising you loved him, and he’d promise the same.

His friends—your friends—would visit. They would reminisce about the past, about the days when the world was at their feet. They’d share beers and put on an impromptu concert for no one in particular, and you’d think they were all just as young as they were when you’d met them.

In the end they would decide that they were happy it was over. It was right to finally say goodbye, no matter how much they wanted to enjoy the music forever. You’d say something cheesy, telling them that their music would live forever, and they’d rib him for ending up with such a softie as you. You’d eventually retire to bed, leaving them to their late-night drunken conversations. 

He’d miss them when they finally departed. He’d be in a slump for a day or so.

Then he’d come running over to you as you returned to pick him up from his painting, all smiles. He’d chatter the whole way home before stopping to remember to ask about your evening. It wouldn’t bother you, though. You liked listening to him talk. You would be perfectly happy if all you did for the rest of your life was listen to him. 

You’d get old, slowing down together. You’d find yourselves content to take walks together and not much else. You’d find the beauty in the simplicity, in watching the man you met in a bar, now old, sitting quietly on the couch looking out the window. He’d be stroking the head of a kitten you’d found in town and couldn’t abandon. He’d notice you were watching him and become shy, still always shy. He’d hold his hand out to you and you’d walk over, taking it and sitting down beside him. He’d curl into you, his greyed hair tickling at your nose.

Every day would be perfect, even when they weren’t. 

Yes, you knew that he would’ve loved here. Wherever you went, he said, he would love. The place was hardly the point: you were.

Carlow was beautiful this time of year.

But not as beautiful as he.

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm okay wow so...didn't think I'd post this but I felt compelled. I would say it's kind of a song-fic if you want it to be. I wrote it listening to Will Ye Go Lassie Go on repeat because it made me cry a lot. Recommend The High Kings version--that's the one I wrote alongside.
> 
> Don't have much to say though because I make MYSELF so supremely sad reading it. So you can imagine the kind of pressure I'm under.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> ~ Melina


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